


Masterpiece - A Teen Top Spin on Stranger than Fiction

by seedsofhappy



Category: 100 Percent (Band), Teen Top (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Romance, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seedsofhappy/pseuds/seedsofhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A suicidal writer finds himself narrating the life of a real person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The movie, Stranger than Fiction, is one of my favorite movies of all time because the idea is *very* original. If you have not watched it, I highly recommend, but you don't have to in order to understand this story.

  
_After anger comes desperation, followed by acceptance and eventually calmness. The left hand notes in this part are loud, but mesh into one another and flow urgently like the roaring waves of the ocean knocking on and sweeping over the sides of a ship, but the notes played by the right hand are even louder, and clear, as if depicting the ship swerving at the assault of the waves and the heavy wind of the storm but advancing in its course nonetheless, persistent and heroic._

_Years of practice have taught him exactly how to work his wrists and his fingers on the keyboard and his feet on the pedals so that the sound he makes hopefully transfers some of the emotions and imageries from his mind to that of the audience. But knowing this piano, he knows his intention does not come through. It’s okay. The pub is not quiet enough for people to see his genius anyway._

_When he reaches the end of the piece, he slowly lets go of the chipped and scratched white key, hoping that by some miracle, the sound will fade just right this time. As expected, it does not. A few lukewarm claps go off here and there as he stands up and bows to the people sitting at the various wooden tables in front of him. His audience is not getting any noisier than they were before he finished._

_He’s the ambience music. They’re not here for the performance._

_Once upon a time, he was stunned by the (lack of) reaction. In his younger days he was used to a vast auditorium filled with silence when he played and enthusiastic cheers when he finished, and smiling professors who patted his shoulder in approval and encouragement backstage. He thought he was supposed to be on a big stage and under the limelight, listened to by many and admired by many, that his shows were supposed to sell out, and people were supposed to flock to him for his signature._

_But that was back when he started out, which was a long time ago. Right now that thought, which he often compares to a pest that gnaws at his heart, is already tired, and he, its host, is tired too._

_He gathers his music sheets into the plastic folder he brought them in earlier._

_“Off for the day?” the pub owner asks while moving around the counter to gather the round identical cardboard coasters into a pile._

_He nods. They say goodnight._

_Every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, when the evening is young, he takes the tube from the stop a few steps from his flat to the pub. The tube is always crowded at that point and he often finds himself standing among talking people, one arm dangling from the metal bar above his head, the other clutching his sheets to his chest._

_And when the sky is several shades darker, he bids goodbye to the bustling people on the lit up street and goes down the stairs of the tube station a few blocks from the pub. He then spends the next hour sitting with both legs stretched out in front of him on a bench in an empty tube car, head leaning against the backrest, and listening to the monotonous click clack the tube makes on the metal track punctuated by a chorus of “mind the gap” and of doors automatically sliding open and closed at each stop._

_He wraps his jacket tighter around his body as a reflex as soon as he emerges from underground to the dark and quiet street of the suburbs where he resides. Today is Friday, and the contrast between the atmosphere in his neighbourhood and the pub’s is even more pronounced. As he walks to the flat, he tries not to breathe too much lest the cold air invades his lungs and stabs him from the inside and reminds him that he’s empty._

_Sometimes he thinks if he lives in the central part of the city, or somewhere as central as the pub, he may not feel this empty because there will be people around to provide him with vicarious warmth and lights from shops to catch his attention and plays and musicals and concerts to entertain him._

_Or he may not feel this empty if he lives in another part of the country, where it’s drier and less cold. Or in another country. Or on another planet._

***

It’s been a while since he last wrote so much in so little time.

Scratch that, it’s been a while since he last wrote.

When Bang Minsoo graduated from university, with a double degree in English and Creative Writing, an “hon.” behind his title and several awards under his belt, the plan was to win a Nobel or two in Literature, (or a Booker, Minsoo isn’t picky,) and/or sign million-dollar deals for theatre and film and TV adaptations, then travel and make inspirational speeches at universities, encouraging children to follow their dreams, all the while living a simple life and wearing simple clothes and being generally simple and approachable like your next-door millionaire.

With that goal in mind, up until last year, which is eight years after he started work writing articles for the theatre column of the Daily Tribune, he was always looking for contests and joining contests, writing, and querying. But dozens of contests later and no million-dollar deal in sight, he has finally resigned to spending his days alternating between the various theatres in the city and the office, wearing away the little talent he may or may not have.

Which is why the fact that this particular idea of a pianist on his slow walk to the grave suddenly hit him a long time after he decided to take a break fascinates him. Even more fascinating is the fact that the story seems to write itself, as if the events are happening in front of his eyes and Minsoo is just putting them down in words. If in the past he had to discipline himself to write and spend hours perfecting a few hundred words, just in the last two weeks, with the little time he had due to the seasonal surge in the number of plays that come out, he wrote several thousand.

And Minsoo believes there’s a reason. 

In a way he has become obsessed with the pianist, thinking of the latter as someone who lives just around the corner and whom he may actually meet. When he takes an occasional walk in the park after work, he would imagine the pianist wrapping up a lesson with some poor kid with a good expensive piano who just wants to be out there hanging with her friends but whose newly rich parents force her to play anyway because it’s a status symbol. 

When he is done arguing with and losing to Seo Minwoo the editor who just cut one half of his article and asked him to rewrite the other half, he would think about the pianist bending his back in front of his computer, trying to fix a production to suit a client’s whim, headphones covering his ears or hanging on his neck, on the screen a number of windows opening at the same time, with bars of various colours lying one on top of another. 

And when he gets back to the house late at night after a show, he would imagine the pianist opening the door to his run-down flat, turning the light on then walking straight into the dark because the old worn lamp takes long to be fully on and his tidy habit, plus the fact that he does not have that much stuff in his flat, makes it impossible for him to bump into something.

“Good night,” Minsoo says, closing the word doc and shutting down his computer. 

Winter has just announced its arrival in the city through chilly small breezes that promenade leisurely along streets and alleyways, sweeping up the yellow leaves left by autumn on the pavement into a slow rhythmic circular dance that starts, and stops, and starts again. The sky hangs low, burdened by vapor, and will soak the city in drizzles at any time. 

As he lies down to sleep, Minsoo wonders if the pianist has stuffed paper into the crack between the two sashes of his window to prevent the wind and the rain from sneaking in and giving him a runny nose and a sore throat, as he is prone to get when the weather changes.

But then he sighs and lets a small mirthless smile grace his lips. 

It doesn’t matter.

***

_He’s floating in the sky and looking down at the city, nothing but air and light filling his being. It’s the beginning of a new day. The sun, big and slowly ascending in the horizon, is shining a mix of pink and orange and, little by little, clearing the white veil of fog that covers the millions of houses packed tight one next to another underneath._

_There’s the building with his flat on the top floor, the old brick roof black with mold, and one corner of his bedroom, the one with the window, sticking out like an unsightly ulcer. There’s the one with the pub on the bottom floor, its outer wall painted in his favourite shade of bright red. And scattering near the center of the city are the various concert halls that he used to frequent when he was a student living on a scholarship, not having to worry about food and shelter and could freely devote his time to lofty ideas._

_Maybe he should land on a rooftop to sit and watch people and traffic gradually spilling into the streets. It’s one of his favourite things to do when he arrived in the city more than 10 years ago from his childhood town, when everything was new and he was new._

_But the sun is like a magnet pulling him in, promising to fill him with more air and light._

_Thump thump thump._

_A strange noise suddenly attacks his ears. He looks around for the source of it but finds nothing. He wants to speed up and reach the sun as soon as possible but the pace at which he’s floating seems to be out of his control; and as he moves, the noise does not fade. It seems to originate from inside his head._

_Thump thump thump._

_The noise starts to form a pattern._

_And..._

_He wakes up_

_in a shaking bed_

_on a shaking floor_

_amid shaking walls._

_He lies in the bed, trying to calm the erratic beating of his heart, which resulted from the violent wake up call, and to come up with something polite to say to the person on the floor below his, who’s playing the drums on a weekend morning at…_

_10, the display of his phone says._

_“What’s wrong with me?” he mumbles and sits up._

_He then shudders in disgust and retracts his feet the moment they hit the floor. The drum performance has caused flakes of paint to peel from the walls to pepper it, all the flakes jumping in unison with each hit to the drums. He needs to sweep these away as soon as possible. It’s a pain to untangle them from his black socks._

_After dragging his slippers to the kitchen, he fixes himself a simple breakfast with bread, butter and the last few drops of milk from the carton. He eats slowly and makes sure no crumbs fall on the floor. It’s a habit he developed after losing sleep over rats for a week after he first moved in till he finally cleaned the whole flat and rearranged the furniture in a way that left no corner for rats to hide. That is also how his cleaning habit started._

_He needs to buy milk today, and watermelon, and fresh mozzarella because he loves sliced tomatoes and mozzarella on toast._

_And then he remembers that he has to leave out one of the three. Two students just terminated lessons and he’s going to have the whole afternoon free, which is why he did not set the alarm to wake up earlier this morning._

_“Mozzarella it is,” he sighs before preparing to leave._

_When he’s on his way to the door of the building, a white envelope peeking from behind the little clear plastic door of his mailbox catches his attention. The letters he receives are almost never important, just coupons for things he can’t afford. But last time it was a refund check from the government tax department and a notice telling him that he had paid a bit more than he had to. The check kept him happy for a week. What will be in store for him this time?_

***

People are only half right when they think the Daily Tribune is a huge and powerful organization.

It’s true that a good review by the Daily Tribune, the most widely read entertainment newspaper in the city, is invaluable to anyone that needs a review, artists and restaurant owners alike; but the organization itself is anything but huge. Minsoo, Daniel, Jonghyun, Rokhyun, Hyukjin, Jonghwan, Sanghoon, Chanyong, theatre, performance arts and others, music-contemporary, music-classical, tourist attractions, pub and restaurant, fine arts and not very fine modern arts, movies and TV and books, at least two articles each per day or a total 10 per week, except for Minwoo, who’s in charge of editing and who somehow manages to remain sane despite having spent 10 years as the sole editor for the Daily Tribune.

“Right now? You want me to go cover that show right now?” Minsoo lets out an exasperated cry, trying his best to stay calm. He lets his head slide from the palm of one hand down the length of his forearm to finally land on his desktop, while his other hand just wants to fling the phone it’s holding out the window. Having no assignment tonight, he thought he finally had some time to work on his story, but the mighty Ahn Daniel has to have an emergency.

“Please. This girl asked me out and I think I’m going to marry her,” Daniel explains, as if that was supposed to gain him some sympathy.

Ahn Daniel joined the firm a year ago and soon proved to be its most valuable asset. Their boss, Andy Lee, makes sure to remind all of them all the time that Ahn Daniel is the main contributor to this newspaper’s advertising revenue, and thus “the bread all of you eat everyday, you hear?” Needless to say, Daniel is not well liked by the rest of them. But that’s not justifiable as a reason for him to cling on to the only person that does not _outright_ dislike him, i.e. Minsoo.

“I’m not asking you to write. You can just tell me what happened and I’ll cook up something,” Daniel continues. He’s getting desperate, probably also terrified of Minsoo’s silence.

Of course Ahn Daniel won’t sabotage his reputation by letting Minsoo write his column, Minsoo chuckles wryly. What Ahn Daniel does is to devise shocking headlines and to twist pornographic contents and other garbage into having artistic meanings. Minsoo, on the other hand, writes thoughtful praises and criticisms to people that deserve them.

But right now, as he stares at the Daily Tribune’s website, which he is visiting for the first time in months out of curiosity sparked by his colleague’s phone call, in front of him an article penned by himself, 1 day ago with 10,000 views, and on its right, on top of the “hot articles” list, one by Ahn Daniel, also 1 day ago but with 100,000 views, he wonders why he bothers.

“OK,” he says finally, shutting down his laptop and standing up to fetch his overcoat. “Have fun,” he adds, then hangs up before Ahn Daniel finishes reciting to him all the expressions of gratitude known to man.

An hour later, Minsoo finds himself at the door of a venue, having just left a show in which there’s nothing going on but static noise and flashing lights. “So this is the “others” in “performance arts and others,” no wonder Daniel is a little off,” he thinks. The show is set to go on for another 1 hour, but his head hurts so much that he decided that 15 minutes in that hell was enough.

The sudden downpour that meets him a few minutes after he reached the street sends him to seek refuge in the nearest pub. “Live piano performance on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday,” the piece of paper glued on the inside of one of the glass panels on the front door says.

***

_“Have you received the wedding invitation yet?” his mum asks from the other end of the line, excited as if it’s her who’s getting married._

_“No mum,” he lies and immediately feels guilty for putting a damper on her enthusiasm._

_“It will arrive in a few days,” she sighs and says._

_Thankfully, she has forgotten that the invitation is also sent through email, and that he should have received it, one way or another._

_Another two minutes go by, consisting entirely of mum giving him half-advices, half-commands that he has heard a hundred times plus, reminding him to eat at the same time everyday to stay healthy and sleep at least 7 hours a day and so on, and of him nodding, giving affirmative quiet hums, and occasionally saying “I will” or "I won't" accordingly. Then they say goodbye and hang up._

_He fetches the wedding invitation from the top of his desk and sits down on his bed. The invitation, made of thick beige textured card stock and letterpressed with an elegant flower pattern, feels heavy in his hands. “…request the pleasure of your company,” the piece of paper reads. Under his sister’s name on the invitation is the name of the groom, with a “de” in the middle and a lot of titles that follow it._

_He has heard about the duke from his parents but never met the latter in person as he always came up with a reason to avoid doing so. “What a pity,” his mother would say through the phone, “he’s a really good kid.”_

_“Yes, I have heard about how much of a good kid he is, about his private jet and his castle and his offering to buy you and father a mansion in the south of western Europe,” he always thought in response but never said out loud._

_The couple has decided to have a simple ceremony in the tiny church in his hometown, the one that his family, all four of them, went to every Sunday when he lived there, and where his parents still attend sermon even now. “The reception will be at a local hotel with only close friends and families,” his sister told him in the email, which has at the end a question he has yet to answer, “If possible, can you play the song of our first dance?”_

_He’s not mediocre and he knows it; but he’s not excellent either, based on the fact that he’s not big right now making world tours. The couple is rich enough to have anyone play at their wedding and yet she asked him._

_He’s not going. He really does not need this wedding to remind him of how much of a failure he is in so many ways. But if he refuses, would she think he needs money and offer to pay?_

_Two weeks till the wedding and he needs to figure out a way to answer her._

***

It’s folks like these that Minsoo dislikes the most.

He is standing in the cramped tube car, minding his own business, and the speaker has just announced a delay due to an unforeseen circumstance.

“Someone jumped in front of the train two stops away from here,” a high school boy in uniform reads out loud from his smart phone screen, prompting a chorus of “ahh” from his fellow passengers. Some shake their heads. Others take out their own phone to check the time then sigh.

“So selfish, jumping in front of a train and causing thousands of people to be late for work like that,” Minsoo thinks.

Minsoo is not selfish. He plans to fall asleep in the privacy of his bedroom and never wake up.

“The dead man’s spouse has just called, five minutes after he was identified,” the boy reads again, having for some reason taken up the task of informing his fellow passengers of the latest development in the story.

“And he’s married too,” Minsoo scowls so hard his face hurts.

Minsoo has no friends; and his family is not aware of his whereabouts nor is he aware of theirs. 

His parents parted ways when they fulfilled their obligation of sending their only child to university so the summer of his first year he came home to find it occupied by a stranger. _“Your father and I are not together anymore, darling,”_ his mother explained to him through the phone when he stood at the door of the home that was no longer his, _“but you’re welcome to visit anytime. Here’s my new address…”_ Minsoo never visited and his mother never called again. Thankfully, his parents split the bill when it came to his tuition and his part-time jobs paid enough to sustain him in the university town during vacations.

The divorce was not a surprise. When he started middle school, his mother was no longer aware of what year he was in and his father was hardly in the same place as the two of them anymore.

But still, in the first year after he caught the news, he would feel dizzy like he was falling off a cliff whenever he saw his schoolmates’ parents pile up their children’s belongings into cars and help them move in and out of their dorm rooms at the beginning and end of the school year, or when he occasionally grabbed his phone, thinking he got a text message or a call, only to discover that he had mistaken a buzz of a fly for a vibration.

Now the first 20 years of his life was but a distant memory. It does not matter much to him, and he, in turns, does not matter much to anyone.

He will make sure to leave his door unlocked that day so that people won’t have to destroy it to get him out.

And by the time they do, the pianist and Minsoo will have already escaped.

When Minsoo steps into the office, it’s almost 11 am; and Jo Jonghwan from pub and restaurant shoots up from his swiveling chair with such force that the chair rears like an angry horse and nearly topples backwards.

“Did you hear what happened?” he asks as he runs towards Minsoo, voice quivering.

Minsoo doubts if there’s anything that could possibly be so important; but Jonghwan looks like he has just been robbed, so Minsoo gestures for him to continue.

***

Minsoo should be home working on his magnum opus; but he finds himself at the Jigsaw Puzzle for the 6th, or 8th, time, he’s not very sure, two weeks after he accidentally discovered it while out covering Daniel’s assignment.

The pub is spacious but feels oddly cozy. Conical lamps hang from the brick-coloured ceiling, emitting a yellow light that gives the walnut wood furniture and panels that cover half the height of the cream-coloured walls a dull shine. The sole bartender, who is also its owner and apparently a hobby psychiatrist, always has a sympathetic smile on his face as he listens to patrons’ problems and offers unsolicited advices.

Minsoo has never talked to Lee Chanhee (such is the name of the bartender, as Minsoo heard people call him) or anyone else here, preferring instead to sit alone at the corner closest to the piano, which is ironically the quietest spot in the pub even on the days when there is a performance, watching from a distance as people talk and laugh and cry (sometimes at the same time), thinking about life in general, and pondering the meaning of the name “The Jigsaw Puzzle.” Sometimes he has a drink in front of him. Sometimes he does not. Nobody tells him he has to leave so more often than not he just comes here to people-watch and relax. 

Tonight, however, Minsoo is staying well after the crowd has cleared and is detailing his situation at the counter in the soothing sound of running water and of “uhuh, go on, I understand” by Chanhee who’s washing the glasses and coaxing him into talking his heart out instead of “moping like that.”

The situation is this: Ahn Daniel, now very skilled in his craft and able to churn out articles at lightning speed, has been promoted by Andy Lee to become Minsoo’s supervisor, which means that everything written by Minsoo now has to run through Daniel before it gets to Minwoo. And instead of a raise for this additional responsibility, he asked Andy Lee for permission to tag along with Jonghwan to learn the ropes around reviewing pubs and restaurants because that is his passion. Jonghwan is probably crying himself to sleep right now, and Minsoo, well, Minsoo is here downing scotch.

“So you’re a journalist!” Chanhee exclaims, “we’ve never had a journalist as a customer before, not that I know of. Which newspaper do you work for exactly?”

“The Daily Tribune.”

“ _The_ Daily Tribune?” Chanhee repeats after Minsoo, slowly, softly and venerably, as if Minsoo has just enunciated a sacred word.

“Yeah,” Minsoo answers.

This is the only perk of his job, seeing people gaping at him like he’s some sort of celebrity when he tells them where he works. For a moment he can forget that at his famous workplace, he’s a nobody and his say never matters.

Chanhee falls silent as if to ponder something for a while, then he looks up.

“Can you ...,” he raises his voice but stops to bite his lower lip and frown, clearly feeling uneasy about the request he’s going to make.

Here it goes. Lee Chanhee, a good friend of everyone, is after all just another pub owner. Minsoo should have known.

“Can you write some good review for my friend?” Chanhee says.

Confused, Minsoo squints at him.

“...the pianist?” Chanhee adds.

“He has been stuck here with me for 7 years since we opened this pub and it’s such a waste because he’s really talented,” Chanhee continues, “so it would be really great if…”

Chanhee did not ask Minsoo for a review of the pub, but of the pianist.

Even more surprising is the fact that they’re friends. Nobody here, including Chanhee, seems to pay attention to the pianist. To be honest, had Chanhee not mentioned him, Minsoo would not have been aware of his presence. He’s the ambience music.

Oh no.

“… so he can get some better paying job somewhere else,” Chanhee finally finishes speaking and is looking at Minsoo with expectant eyes.

Suddenly aware that he is part of the indifference towards the pianist, and stricken with guilt, Minsoo is about to apologize; but he stops himself as he realizes that the pianist has left the pub a while ago and in front of him is the bartender. 

Chanhee’s face falls. “It’s ok if you can’t,” he says, clearly having interpreted Minsoo’s silence as rejection, “I mean it’s not something that…”

Minsoo cuts him off.

“My specialty is theatre,” Minsoo says and stands up, “but I’ll see what I can do. Would he mind if I talk to him for a bit tomorrow when I bring my recorder?”

***

Instead of sucking up to Minsoo like any artist that knows his or her place does, Lee Byunghun is indifferent. He nods when Chanhee introduces Minsoo to him and shakes Minsoo’s hand with a brittle smile that seems to take a lot of effort on his part to muster. While Byunghun sits down on the piano bench, Minsoo turns the chair he often occupies at the corner table to face the pianist.

“So do you live in the city?” Minsoo begins with a general inquiry after pressing the play button on the recorder and giving it to Byunghun to hold.

“I don’t know if it’s considered the city. But yeah, the post code does not look that much different,” Byunghun answers while examining the device.

“How far is it from here?”

“One hour by tube.”

Lee Byunghun started playing at 6 and has never stopped. He graduated from university 8 years ago. Besides playing piano at the Jigsaw Puzzle for 3 evenings per week, he teaches, composes and produces. He makes enough to have a roof over his head though his flat is not very ideal.

“My floor tilts to one side so my closet does not close; and the radiator gets hot but does not radiate heat,” he elaborates, eyes looking somewhere at the floor around his feet.

“Wait what?” Minsoo wonders aloud. This sounds eerily familiar.

“Yeah, so I wonder whether I should call them closet and radiator,” Byunghun shrugs, pulling one sleeve of his black hoodie to cover the palm of his free hand and starts using it to wipe the dust gathered at the top of the piano keys.

“And I guess paint on the wall peels and your neighbour does not let you sleep?” The words are out his mouth before Minsoo is aware.

“Yeah, the drummer on the floor right below mine.” Byunghun looks up from the piano and says with a few slow nods, “how did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Minsoo says quickly and stands up. He originally planned to ask Byunghun about his favourite pianists or composers or his influences, but this is getting very strange and he can’t think properly right now. 

A tug on his arm interrupts his train of thoughts. He turns back to see Byunghun, now also standing up, quickly withdraw his bony hand.

“Your recorder,” the pianist says, holding the device out towards Minsoo.

“Oh. Thank you so much,” Minsoo replies, taking the recorder and hurriedly putting it back into the leather case it comes in before slipping the whole thing into his coat pocket. He needs to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Can I ask you a question?” Byunghun’s voice startles him.

Minsoo looks up to see Byunghun staring at him intently.

“Sure.”

“I have seen you here more than once. What keeps you coming back?”

Already confused by the surreal revelation of a minute ago, Minsoo takes a while to process the question. He’s not yet done when Byunghun lowers his eyes, an apologetic smile on his face.

“I’m sorry I probably sound very creepy... but you sit at the same spot every time, at the table closest to me. I’m just wondering,” he says and looks up again.

“No reason,” Minsoo answers curtly. He may never dare to come back here.

“Oh…OK,” Byunghun says and sighs, voice doused with disappointment about something Minsoo does not know. But Minsoo does not have time nor is he in the mood to investigate. He shakes Byunghun’s hand and thanks the pianist for the interview then says goodbye to Chanhee, who has just finished cleaning things up. It’s quite late already, given that the interview began after the pub closed.

He’s on his way to the door when he hears Chanhee’s excited squeal.

“Soonkyu’s wedding in two weeks!”

“I don’t know if I should go,” comes Byunghun’s answer.

“She’s your sister,” Chanhee insists, “besides, her fiancé is a duke. I want to see.”

Minsoo staggers out the door. His head hurts and his chest hurts. 

(TBC)


	2. Chapter 2

The pianist has a name, a face and a voice that is now ringing low but clear from the speakers of Minsoo’s computer.

_“At first I was like, this is so different from what I was used to, like, “why does no one clap?” but after a while you’re just kind of used to it.”_

And as much as Minsoo wants to, he is not dreaming.

Multiple searches on the Internet return the exact pub with the exact name at that exact street corner and that looks exactly the same. “Live piano performance on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday,” the info section says, below is a single 5-star review by a certain Mr. Jung. “Chanhee is friendly and a great listener. Byunghun is a real talent. If you’re there, tell them Mr. Jung says hi.”

Gathering all his courage, Minsoo dials the number of the pub.

“Hello, this is the Jigsaw Puzzle. Lee Chanhee speaking. How may I help you?” comes the response. The melodic and slightly raspy voice is unmistakably Chanhee’s. Minsoo hangs up.

Minsoo replays the evening in his head. Lee Byunghun was polite, soft-spoken and exuded a melancholic air. His eyes were devoid of any emotions. He answered all the questions with details but nonchalance. Even Minsoo’s knowing these details about him did not surprise him too much and Minsoo’s very inadequate “lucky guess” answer did not trigger him a bit.

Page 2 paragraph 2 and 3 from top: _“He has been told that when he comes back at night, it’s better to take the bus than to take the tube because in a bus you’re close to the driver so if someone attacks you, the driver, who is trained in self-defense, can help. In an empty tube car, however, someone can kill you and nobody is going to hear your call for help._

_But he is not afraid of robbers because those music sheets don’t sell for much and his cell phone is the one he has been using since first year of university (“Is it some kind of antique now?” he is slightly amused by the thought.). And if the robber, frustrated with his lack of valuable belongings, wants to kill him, then his death does not matter much to anyone anyway.”_

Page 4 line 5 from bottom: _“One of these days, the closet may collapse on him unexpectedly or the radiator may explode when he’s asleep and wipe him and this lame excuse of a flat off the face of the earth, not that he minds.”_

Page 7 paragraph 3 from top: _“His sister has been providing them with all the material and emotional support they need, filling the void and compensating for the distress he has been causing. Were he to disappear, it would be easier for all three of them.”_

Minsoo desperately scrolls through the word document.

No matter how many times he has told himself that he is not a murderer, he can’t shake off the guilt that comes with knowing that someone is about to kill himself and the only thing he can do is watch that person sink deeper and deeper into despair and eventually end it all. There are no details in the story that seem likely to develop into something that can prevent Byunghun’s suicide. They all show how frail Byunghun’s connection with the world is and how easy it is for him to leave it behind. They all point to that inescapable ending.

_“Did Chanhee ask you to interview me? He did not tell me but I can guess. I have been doing this for 7 years. It’s just impossible that someone is interested in me all of a sudden.”_

That is unless a new element is introduced into the storyline.

***

_”Do you often frequent places like this?” Byunghun asks. He’s sitting in a fancy restaurant, opposite of Minsoo, the journalist that interviewed him in the pub a few days ago. The latter just asked to tag along with Byunghun for half a day to learn more about his life so they agreed to meet for lunch before going to the practice room at a university where Byunghun practices and composes._

_“No,” Minsoo shakes his head, “Actually, one of us does, but that’s because it’s his job. Most of us pack our own lunch or eat fast food.”_

_“What do you do?”_

_“I eat fast food. I’m too lazy to pack my own lunch.”_

_“Fast food isn’t good for you,” Byunghun says to him._

_“I know,” Minsoo says as he scans through pages of the menu, “that’s not important.” He then looks up at Byunghun. “We’re here to talk about you,” he reminds Byunghun, “so how come you and Chanhee opened a pub together? How did you guys meet?”_

_“We went to the same middle and high school. I met him in middle school,” Byunghun answers._

_“Are you close?”_

_“Yeah,” Byunghun says after a pause then smiles, “he used to be at our house most of the time. He had trouble understanding stuff at school so I helped him.”_

_Minsoo nods._

_“But he’s really good at stuff not taught in school though,” Byunghun adds, “like jigsaw puzzles.”_

_“So that explains the name,” Minsoo exclaims quietly. The discovery seems to make the journalist a bit disappointed._

_“Yeah, Chanhee is simple like that,” Byunghun laughs. Minsoo, like many other pub patrons, must have thought that there’s some deep meaning behind the name of the pub._

_“I can be called a co-owner but it’s mostly Chanhee’s money. When I went to university, he went to work and saved a sum to open the Jigsaw Puzzle,” Byunghun continues, “He’s a great friend. Actually, we painted the pub’s outer walls in my favourite colour.”_

_For the rest of the lunch, they talk about their respective experience in school. It makes Byunghun laugh a little, reminiscing about his childhood._

_“Just so you know, I am aware that this is the genius work of Chanhee. But you kind of let it slip,” Byunghun tells Minsoo later when they leave the restaurant for the university._

_Minsoo looks at him with widened eyes._

_“Where’s your recorder?”_

_“Ah…yes…,” Minsoo startles then scrambles to take his recorder out of his coat pocket. Byunghun starts walking and the journalist hurries to catch up with him._

_“Also shouldn’t I be answering more professional questions, such as those about my favourite composers or my influences?” he asks without looking at Minsoo._

_“That’s right. But just so you know your story is a good one and it’s not uncommon for us to write about someone or something recommended to us by someone else,” Minsoo says, “so can you tell me about your inspiration?”_

_Byunghun does. He tells Minsoo about the old pianist, about hours of listening note for note and squealing internally, young Soonkyu kneeling by his side at his bed as he showed her videos of performances on his computer._

_Once in the practice room, Byunghun sits down at the piano while Minsoo settles in the chair a bit away from it._

_“The piano here is a bit more decent than the piano in the pub and the atmosphere is quiet,” he tells Minsoo, “so you can hear nuances if you want to.”_

_“The gentle arpeggios played by the right hand are like little waves on the surface of a still pond when there’s a breeze or when you throw a pebble into the water. And the notes played by the left hand, which are disparate, a little bit louder and heavier, are the pebbles, disturbing the surface and creating these concentric ripples,” he explains his composition to Minsoo though he’s not sure if the latter is interested._

_Minsoo waits till he finishes the piece before looking at him thoughtfully._

_“You have a gift,” the journalist says._

_“I heard that a lot. Thanks,” Byunghun answers then turns away from him to focus on the piano again._

***

It’s not hostility, just bitterness. Sometimes Byunghun masks it with polite acknowledgement, sometimes Byunghun doesn’t bother to.

And it does not go away.

Kim Rokhyun can’t take Byunghun’s case, which is understandable because Minsoo can’t either. Byunghun does not have a show for him to review and the artists for whom Byunghun produces songs are all underground.

Minsoo has been coming to the Jigsaw Puzzle to watch Byunghun perform every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. With the plays he has to watch almost every night, most of the time he is only able to catch the very last pieces of Byunghun’s performances and to tell Byunghun “great job,” sometimes with a thumb up, at the end. He then follows Byunghun to the tube station and sits on the same bench with the pianist for 15 minutes in the empty tube car, telling him about trivial annoyances at work and coaxing him to talk, till Minsoo gets off at his stop and bids goodbye to Byunghun, who will have to continue the trip for another 45. He has been trying to cheer Byunghun up in the hope that the latter would cancel his plan to commit suicide.

But it’s Friday night, almost two weeks after he started this so-called intervention, and Byunghun has just nodded to his compliment, glancing at him for not more than one second, before walking right past where he’s sitting to the door of the pub and suddenly it hits him just how silly everything is. It’s silly to think that his presence in the story can somehow change the course of events. If Byunghun wants to kill himself, he will, and the only thing Minsoo can do is to accept it.

So he remains in his seat after Byunghun has left. Given that he can’t change anything, would he still want to share with Byunghun 15 minutes of fragmented conversation in an empty tube car three times a week?

Minsoo does not know exactly how long it took him to get up from his chair and start running; he only knows it’s too long.

Luckily, he catches up with Byunghun when the latter is about to go down the stairs of the tube station. It could be wishful thinking on his part, but Byunghun’s expression seems to brighten up at his sight.

"Let's take the bus," Minsoo says, doubling over and holding on to his knees with his hands while catching his breath, relief flooding his heart. Byunghun pauses, maybe because it's a break in habit, then agrees.

The ride is spent mostly in silence, with Minsoo leaning his head on the cold glass of the bus window next to his seat and looking outside and Byunghun doing the same on the double seat on the other side of the bus across from him.

“Can I see where you live?” Minsoo asks Byunghun 30 minutes into their journey.

“Sure, why not?”

Outside, it gets darker and darker and the streets less and less crowded as they move away from the centre of the city. Snow starts to fall, tiny white flurries reflecting the light of the bus’s headlamps and of street lamps and looking like silver dust.

When they get off the bus in Byunghun’s neighbourhood, snow has formed a thin carpet on the ground. The night is black and the streetlight sleepy yellow. Silver snow dust accumulates on the naked branches of the trees on the two sides of the road and lands on Byunghun's black beanie, peppers his bang peeking out underneath the brim and shines.

"First snow, woohoo!" Byunghun exclaims then starts jumping around, each hit of his shoes on the ground sending the little soft and fine snow around his feet flying. Minsoo smiles wide at his childlike excitement. It’s a side of the pianist Minsoo has never seen.

"Does it snow where you come from?" Minsoo asks him.

"Does it?" Byunghun laughs, “We have downpours, but instead of water, it’s snow. This is very tame.”

Byunghun then tells him about the town, about the hills and the woods covered with white, where it’s so cold that it actually hurts because ice crystals form beneath your skin.

He tells Minsoo about that time Chanhee and he put Soonkyu on a tray they sneaked out from the school dining hall and pushed her down a snow-covered hill. She was having the time of her life but their parents yelled at them when she revealed it.

They walk side by side, their footprints disturbing the pristine carpet of snow on the pavement, their laughs stirring awake some dogs here and there that answer them with echoing barks. After seeing Byunghun to his doorstep, Minsoo goes home and dreams about large fields of snow that stretch to the horizon.

***

_One can’t make out trees and houses and fences and everything else from the white animated canvas of flying snow. It’s a miracle they managed to clear the railway for this early morning train. Sitting inside the carriage and looking out the window like this, Byunghun has the feeling that he’s being pulled into a world of nothing but endless white._

_“Soonkyu will be here tomorrow. They can’t take the plane because of snow,” he recites Soonkyu’s text message to his dad as the latter opens the door to a cab and ushers him in, his voice nearly drowned out by the low persistent howl of the wind around them. His dad takes his backpack from his hand before settling beside him in the backseat of the cab. Back when he was a student going home for holidays, his dad always showed up at the train station to pick him up. They always went home in a cab and his dad carried all his suitcases into and out of it for him._

_His room is exactly the way he left it at the end of the summer of his 3rd year of university before he came back to the city for the 4th year and had not been back ever since. (Well, he’s technically back for Christmas every year but only stayed for the dinner and a bit of talking time before always finding an excuse to leave.)_

_Here the floor does not tilt to one side and the radiator works properly. Books line up on the shelves, next to all the trophies he won as a kid. His bed is already covered with a clean bed sheet and equipped with a blanket, the same ones that he used when he was living here. Wafting from them is the smell of the same detergent._

_He puts his backpack down on the chair of his old desk before approaching the upright piano leaning against one wall, his first piano ever, and running his fingers on the glossy black wooden lid, tracing every curve and ridge. The lack of dust on his hand afterwards tells him that the housekeeper must have cleaned it. Or it could be his dad. His dad always cleaned his room the day before he came back so that when he did he would have a room ready for him to stay in._

_Three quick taps on his door interrupt his train of thoughts. He turns back to see Mrs. Kim, the housekeeper who has been with them since last Christmas, courtesy of Soonkyu and her fiancé as mum and dad refused the mansion, standing at the frame. He must have forgotten to close the door earlier, too busy taking in the features of his old room. “Are you ready for lunch Mr. Lee?” she asks._

_Lunch is as expected. He nods in silence as his mum updates him on things that happened to his schoolmates, whose parents still live here and his mum still meet at the supermarket or in town once in a while. They, unlike Byunghun, are doing something with their life. Soonkyu just visited this porcelain village and bought the super expensive set of plates they’re using right now plus the tea set on the table in the living room. Funny how when Soonkyu was in school they often showed her Byunghun’s old exams and told her to work hard to “be like your brother.”_

_“Just leave the dishes there. Mrs. Kim will wash them,” his mum says after the three of them are done with desserts, just when Byunghun stands up to take the plates to the sink._

_But Byunghun stays behind after his parents have left the dining room and asks Mrs. Kim to let him wash the dishes. Mrs. Kim refuses but eventually gives in because he insists. He tells her he misses doing chores in his childhood home though it’s not the reason._

***

_It happens in slow motion. The plate moves from his slippery hand through the air to land on the floor, bouncing off it once, twice before disintegrating into three big pieces and multiple smaller pieces, the blue and gold painted on the edge swirling and meshing into each other. Each separate clang of porcelain hitting the tiles is dry and sharp like a swift but deep stab of a knife to his brain._

_He swoops down to gather the pieces, his hands feeling like they’re not his own. Mrs. Kim puts down the broom she’s holding to walk towards him. She slowly and carefully wraps the big pieces in a piece of kraft paper. He becomes hysterical. He apologizes profusely despite her assuring him that it’s no big deal._

_But yes it is a big deal. Why is he so useless? Why is it so unfair?_

_Before he knows it, he is back in his room, curling up in his bed. At first it’s just silent hot and big teardrops rolling down his cheeks one after another then the pace quickens and tears come in a constant stream and small whimpers escape from the back of his throat._

_He hears the sound of his mum’s slippers as she walks towards the kitchen to see what’s going on; but he can’t hear the conversation between his mum and the housekeeper over the sound of his hiccups. Then there’s knocking on his door. He wipes his tears away before standing up to open it. But his eyes are sore and each press of his hand to his face only serve to help the tears gush out._

_His mum briefly frowns at the sight of his face before glancing down and taking his hand. Only when the cotton ball she’s dabbing his palm with turns deep red does he know he’s bleeding. She leads him back into his room and they sit down at the edge of his bed. He tries to swallow his hiccups but can’t._

_“Baby. It’s ok. Mum’s here,” his mum says and gathers him into her arms._

_Just like that, everything pours out through his eyes, 8 years of run down flat and lazy tantrum-throwing students and inconsiderate whining clients and broken dreams and unmet expectations and disappointment and guilt. His mum listens to his words and pats his arm and back to soothe him._

_She only left when he’s already fast asleep because he wakes up on his back, neatly tucked into his blanket._

_In the afternoon the storm has stopped. The wind has died down. The sky is clear and blue and peeking through holes in white fluffy clouds are yellow and pink rays of sun. Snow in big mounds in front of the house glitters like frosting sugar._

_He opens the piano and plays. It’s amazing how little time it takes him to get used to the weight of these keys again. Soon he’s emerged in the rhythms of the waltz, his brain finding again just the right amount of force to apply with each fingertip so that the timber and volume of each note is exactly how he wants them to be._

_“You’re good,” his dad’s voice startles him from behind when he finishes._

_“Thanks dad,” he says, “It’s Soonkyu’s first dance song.”_

***

_Soonkyu is beautiful in her white dress and some small white flowers adorning her updo._

_“I’ll ask for my money back if it’s not beautiful,” she says to her friends. “2 hours for hair plus make up, sitting in the same position, in a dress. It’s not exactly comfortable,” she details her struggles to the group of boys and girls who are fussing over her, most of them around the same age as she is. Byunghun took a long time to recognize each of Soonkyu’s friends. Somehow in his mind is still the image of this rowdy and loud group of teenagers, the image stuck in his mind since he left home for university._

_He has just played for the first dance and is currently taking a break from jamming with the band. Chanhee is running around and talking to everyone. He always has a lot of stories to tell. Every old person loves him._

_Byunghun jolts awake from his musing when an elbow jabs his ribs. Soonkyu sits down next to him on the piano bench and he scoots to one edge to give space to her. As she leans her head on his shoulder, he instinctively moves his arms to wrap around her but hesitates for fear of wrinkling her silk chiffon veil, which is now swept backward over her head and draping over her shoulder and behind her back. But she tightens her arms around him, wrinkling the veil, so he does the same and rests his head on hers._

_“Will you come visit me sometimes?” she asks._

_“At the castle?”_

_Soonkyu shakes with laughter._

_“We don’t live in the castle. We live in a flat. The castle is open to tourists.”_

_“I will,” Byunghun says. She’s not looking at him but he nods anyway. Soonkyu and her husband wave to each other from across the room and watching the tender smile on the face of the young man (the duke is, after all, just a young man), Byunghun can feel a smile breaking on his face, too._

_Chanhee approaches them, champagne flute in hand._

_“You’re married,” he states the obvious with a pout, eyebrows furrowing. Soonkyu stands up to hug him and Chanhee immediately starts crying. It will take Soonkyu and Byunghun a long time to get him to stop, if their experience with him breaking down into sobs in the church this afternoon is anything to go by._

_So Byunghun tells him that even though they have all grown up, some things don’t have to change. Everyone’s down for borrowing the waiters’ trays to slide down the hill in front of this hotel, Soonkyu adds._

_After the reception, before leaving for the city themselves by train, Chanhee and Byunghun see Soonkyu and her husband off as the newlyweds board a cab to the airport to go on their honeymoon._

_“I need to give you this,” Soonkyu says as she digs around in her duffle bag before producing in her hand a CD and handing it to Byunghun._

_“Dear Byunghun, …” the dedication at one corner of the CD cover says._

_Byunghun stares at the signed CD in his hand._

_"No way," he tells her, breathless._

_"Yes way," she says and nods and he knows his thrill is contagious because Soonkyu seems to be slightly shaking from excitement too._

_“We went to his show back where we live and I spent the whole show just waiting for the end so that I could buy a CD and get his signature,” she rambles on as Byunghun traces his fingers on the words written in black marker ink, the handwriting, which he is so familiar with, bringing back memories of youthful devotion._

_“I got this last year but never had the chance to give it to you in person. You’re always so busy. And I just have to give it to you in person because I want to see your reaction,” she continues, voice gentle, perhaps sensing that he’s having a private moment._

_“Soonkyu,” he looks up at her and says, already feeling the sting at the corner of his eyes, “thank you.”_

_“You’re welcome,” Soonkyu smiles._

***

“Don't you want to know where I was?”

“Your sister's wedding?” 

“How did you know?” 

“I uhh...heard from Chanhee,” Minsoo blurts out after a pause, voice a little too loud to be convincing. It’s fortunate they’re currently talking through the phone so Byunghun can’t see the change in his countenance.

“My mum says she never meant to make me feel that way,” Byunghun says, “I know she’s telling the truth because of the way she tried to make up to me afterwards, making my favorite food, tiptoeing around me and what not. I had to tell her I’m ok for so many times in order for her to stop. Thankfully we’re cool now.”

“And my parents have been putting all the money I sent to them into a bank account so that I can buy a house later,” he adds, “They said because my sister is currently more financially able than them and me so there’s nothing bad about getting help from her.”

Minsoo does not really know how this family thing works. The last time he saw his mum was in a restaurant a few years back. They were celebrating Changhyun the IT guy’s birthday, which coincidentally was also the birthday of one of the two teenagers sitting at the same table as mum and a man Minsoo did not know. “Hello mum. How are you?” got stuck in his throat as he stood and watched the happy family talking and laughing. He did not want to break that picture-perfect moment.

“Overall everything has been great for me. How about you? What are you up to these days?” Byunghun asks.

“Stalking an old gentleman who makes puppets by hand and reenacts fairytales on the street near the central square. Daniel thinks it’s not important to write about these people but I do, so I’m going to write it and there’s nothing he can do about it,” Minsoo answers as he moves voice files from his recorder to a folder in his computer. 

“Daniel has been particularly unpleasant. Just discovered that the girl that asked him out is currently “not a big fan of marriage”,” he says and Byunghun chuckles.

Minsoo coughs. The nights out in this cold weather have really taken a toll on him. 

“There’s this cough syrup I always take. It’s all natural and it really helps calm your throat so you won’t cough so much that it disrupts your sleep; but I can’t remember the name...,” Byunghun says, voice concerned. 

“I sleep through everything,” Minsoo assures him, “I slept through a three-hour disaster of an opera before, remember? I’ve been coughing for like 3 days now and I still sleep as well as ever.”

“Three days and taking no medicine?”

Minsoo tries to wave the matter away. 

“You always say it does not matter. I told you to dress warmly,” Byunghun mumbles, “I also told you not to eat so much junk food because you’re too lazy to pack your own lunch.”

And then there’s silence.

“You made him cry. Apologize,” Chanhee pops up out of nowhere on the other end of the line. Minsoo nearly jumps from surprise.

Minsoo knows how protective Chanhee is of Byunghun. The bartender has for multiple times told Minsoo how worried he was about Byunghun’s mood in the past two weeks. 

Luckily Byunghun’s back before Minsoo starts panicking.

“I didn’t cry,” he laughs, “But take care of yourself ok?”

“Ok,” Minsoo says. He really means it.

“Goodnight,” Byunghun says and Minsoo can hear his smile, the kind of smile in which he lowers his head and his eyes disappear behind his lashes.

Minsoo does not know how this works either.

***

_Every adventure has always begun with Chanhee saying, “You know what’s going to be fun?” giddy with anticipation and face nearly split by a plotting grin, followed by Byunghun saying, “What now?” with a frown because fun never ended well._

_But then Byunghun always ended up succumbing to the appeal of Chanhee’s plan and joining the latter on an adventure that always ended up with Chanhee falling or tripping off something and breaking something and the two of them being scolded by their parents. (Later when Soonkyu was old enough to ask to join, Soonkyu would also break something, daredevil that she is.)_

_As of right now, Chanhee and Byunghun have just come back from their hometown; it’s a bit past midnight and Chanhee has just said, “You know what’s going to be fun?” and they are turning the light on in the empty pub but keeping the ‘close’ sign up on the front door._

_“What would you like to drink?” Chanhee asks, walking behind the counter._

_“A watermelon margarita please,” Byunghun answers. Chanhee hates watermelon; and Byunghun is having great fun watching Chanhee glare at him with a wrinkled nose._

_“This reminds me of those early days of this pub. We had like, one or two customers?” Chanhee laughs as he opens the fridge to take out a watermelon._

_Byunghun watches with amazement while Chanhee swiftly cuts, pulses, strains and pours. He juggles the mixer between his two hands with such ease and dexterity that it’s hard for Byunghun to believe this is the Chanhee that was always tripping and falling and getting his knees scraped and his arms and legs and forehead purple with bruises when they were young._

_“Whoa. Do you do this every day?” Byunghun asks._

_“Only when I’m asked to,” Chanhee chuckles, “This is just to impress you. You don’t know what I’m capable of, do you?”_

_“No,” Byunghun admits. He feels guilty because though he technically sees Chanhee every week, he does not really know his friend thoroughly. Chanhee nods understandingly then pours the margarita into a fancy-looking glass. Garnish is for the weak, they decide then and there, because Byunghun can, and will, single-handedly finish the rest of the watermelon, and a tiny slice perched at the edge of the glass will look like an insult._

_“It would be a waste had you not become a bartender,” Byunghun tells him after taking a sip of the refreshing drink as the two of them sit down at one of the round tables._

_“Man, had it not been for you, I would not be able to do this. You class this place up,” Chanhee smiles and reaches out to pat Byunghun’s shoulder, “some people are here just because of you.”_

_“Really? Like who?”_

_“Mr. Jung and Mr. Shim,” Chanhee says._

_“The soul mates. Yeah.”_

_“They said they would not have met each other had they not come here for your performance on that fateful day,” Chanhee elaborates, “And Mr. Shim’s friends. I love them.”_

_“Because they drink a lot?”_

_“Yeah…No. I love them for their personalities. Oh and Minsoo. Thanks to you, I can sell drinks.”_

_“And thanks to you, I have a job, a piano to play,” Byunghun smiles at him._

_“We’re like synergy,” Chanhee nods, face serious, and gives Byunghun a thumb up._

_“Symbiotic, Chanhee,” Byunghun chuckles._

_“I am not very good at geography.”_

_“It’s biology,” Byunghun laughs so hard his tears come out. Then he remembers that Chanhee does not like it when people make fun of him._

_But Chanhee does not look angry at all. Tears well up in his big eyes. Soon enough Chanhee starts sobbing, exactly like 15 years ago when he told Byunghun he struggled so much in class and could you help me I don’t understand a thing._

_Byunghun stands up and walks to Chanhee’s side of the table and hugs the latter’s shaking lanky frame tight and holds on to him like he’s a plank of wood Byunghun fortunately catches when struggling to stay afloat at sea._

***

“Can you rewrite this Minsoo? Focus on the fact that the actor and actress are totally naked for the first 30 minutes of the play when they sit on the bed and converse?” Ahn Daniel, apparently feeling that email is no longer an effective way to reach Minsoo when the latter is working from home (and he does have his reason, which is that Minsoo does not answer him), decides to call Minsoo this time and annoys Minsoo with his loud and grating voice.

No Minsoo can not. First, this play sucks and they’d better pay him double, no, make that triple, for him to talk well about it. Second, he wrote this whole article based on the program note and the little information he gathered from researching the playwright and director and actor and actress on the Internet.

The night he’s supposed to spend 3 hours watching the play next to Ahn Daniel, he left after the first 15 minutes of naked people talking (or yelling, he wasn’t sure) in a dialect he does not understand. He told Daniel he had to go pee. “Don’t wait for me because when I come back I may find a seat with a better view,” he said.

Which is complete bull, because as critics from the Daily Tribune they’re guaranteed the best view. Minsoo then left for the tube station instead of the toilet and spent the night watching Byunghun’s performance at the Jigsaw Puzzle.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asks Daniel, frowning.

The door to his flat creaks open and in comes Byunghun, hugging in front of him a paper bag full of grocery with one arm, his free hand catching the handle of the door just in time to prevent it from hitting the wall next to it and making a ear-splitting bang as a result. Byunghun has just assembled a pot of porridge in the kitchen before going out to get groceries. Seeing Minsoo’s frown, he silently mouths the word “Ahn Daniel”, raising his eyebrows to signify a question. Minsoo nods to him. 

“Say that it’s a bold artistic move. It’s shocks people and shows us the nakedness of human beings,” Daniel says.

That’s because they’re literally naked, Minsoo mumbles. He dislikes the pompous words that come out of Daniel’s mouth so much. He bets Daniel himself does not understand half of those.

“No,” Minsoo says then hangs up and leans back in his chair.

Byunghun, upon hearing Minsoo’s aggressive out-of-character answer to Ahn Daniel, looks up from the boiling pot he’s stirring and snickers in what may be considered admiration. “Whoa,” he says, widening his eyes.

Minsoo is home today in order not to infect his co-workers. Byunghun is here too to make sure that Minsoo eats and takes his medicine; also what better occasion for him to try Byunghun’s mum’s porridge recipe?

“Chanhee’s taking me to a showroom next week,” Byunghun half says half shouts from the kitchen, his voice almost drowned in the sound of water running from the sink faucet.

“He said, ‘The piano seems a bit dilapidated. I don’t know how to choose a new one. Man, will you go with me to the showroom later? There are old pianos there that may be good. We can’t afford a new expensive one now. We may be later but we’ll get the best one there is’,” Byunghun babbles gleefully while washing some vegetable in the sink, and, knowing Chanhee, Minsoo knows Byunghun is quoting the bartender verbatim.

“Also, Mr. Shim told me that one of his friends was renting out a double-bedroom flat. You want to share?” he asks.

“It’s closer to a studio and I plan to step up on the whole producing gig,” he continues as the sweet smell of cooked rice fills the whole flat. The porridge is already done and Byunghun is ladling the steaming mixture into a bowl. 

Minsoo is considering the suggestion when he realizes Byunghun is right behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, soft locks of hair tickling his ear and cheek.

“You know, to save on rent?” he asks.

“Sure,” Minsoo says, turning his head to Byunghun’s side to look at him, but Byunghun straightens up and smiles when Minsoo’s gaze chases his movement to land on his face.

Later while Minsoo eats the porridge (in the kitchen, because you’re not supposed to eat in the bedroom or else there will be rats), Byunghun gathers the paper and books strewn around in Minsoo’s bedroom and tidies it up. 

The next morning, when Minsoo is microwaving a glass container of porridge in the kitchen for brunch (Byunghun was so thoughtful to have made enough for Minsoo to eat for one more day), he finds his unused sleeping pills in the trash bin.

He does not take them out.

***

“Scotch, as usual,” Minsoo tells Chanhee as he takes off his coat to drape it over the backrest of one of the tall stools at the counter in the pub before sitting down. Jonghwan settles next to him.

“A mojito please,” Jonghwan says.

The two of them have just come back from the joint birthday party of Jang Hyukjin from tourist attractions and Lee Sanghoon from fine arts and not very fine modern arts (“Come on guys we’re too old for this,” Hyukjin would say, “I’m 8 years older than you and I ain’t complaining!” Minwoo would say, and everyone would toast to Andy Lee, without whom they would all starve at a street corner, and Ahn Daniel, without whom they would not have to worry about being kicked out and actually starving at a street corner. “Will write reviews for food,” they have decided their carton signs would say; and Minsoo always think that’s a bad joke, probably because it’s not really a joke.). Jonghwan has been sullen throughout the evening because for the first time in his life his article has just been butchered by Ahn Daniel, who is apparently done learning the ropes around pub and restaurant reviewing as well as writing some articles whose number of views quadruples that of Jonghwan’s creations and has become Jonghwan’s supervisor. 

“And then the pastry chef said that all the cocoa powder used in the chocolate desserts in this restaurant is 100% organic and sourced from a traditional cocoa farm in Mexico,” Jonghwan continues with the story he has been telling Minsoo all the way from the restaurant to the pub. The story seems very long and Minsoo is not very sure where it began anymore. “And it’s important, right? right?” Jonghwan asks, leaning forward as if it’s going to make his case more convincing, clearly still agitated even though Minsoo has assured him for countless times that Minsoo is on his side in this gross injustice he’s suffering.

Minsoo nods cautiously.

“Wrong,” he says bitterly, “he deleted that quote,” Jonghwan says, gesturing with both of his hands for effect, “saying that no one can tell the difference between this cocoa powder and the generic type you got from shops. Well I can, ok? And then he put the part where …”

Minsoo does not hear him, partly because his speech is full of jargon and his voice is kind of slurring from anger, and partly because a somewhat familiar melody is sounding itself. He tries to then succeeds in identifying it as Byunghun’s new piece, the one Byunghun showed him the first time he followed the pianist to his practice room.

“I am telling you, Ahn Daniel does not know jack, and yet he keeps…he keeps editing me,” Jonghwan stutters and hiccups. 

“Tell me about that,” Minsoo thinks as he gingerly taps Jonghwan’s back with his palm till Jonghwan calms down. 

Jonghwan takes a sip of the mojito that has just arrived in front of him then puts the glass down to stare at it. He looks like he has just discovered something. 

“This mojito,” he murmurs, “is seriously good mojito.” He then snaps his head up and waves Chanhee, who’s tending to another patron, over.

“How long have you been making cocktails?” Jonghwan asks.

“Ten years. I started as soon as I was legal to drink,” Chanhee answers, slightly frowning at Jonghwan with curiosity.

Minsoo focuses on his scotch because the next part of Jonghwan and the bartender’s conversation is, again, full of jargon. When Chanhee leaves to tend to another customer, Jonghwan tugs on one sleeve of Minsoo’s sweater and asks him, “How did you know this place? It’s not close to either the office or your house.”

But Byunghun has just finished the piece so Minsoo and the pianist wave and smile to each other.

When Minsoo resumes his attention to the conversation with Jonghwan, the latter nudges Minsoo’s shoulder with his own and snickers, “Oh I get it.” Minsoo wonders what he gets.

Three days later, a sparkling review for the Jigsaw Puzzle appears on the Daily Tribune’s website, prompting a wave of new patrons, most of whom soon become regulars because they fall in love with the friendly bartender and the mellow pianist.

And a week later, when Byunghun, Minsoo and Chanhee are talking and laughing, Byunghun and Minsoo sitting on two of the stools at the counter and Chanhee behind it, grinning ear to ear as he fills orders, Jonghwan approaches them, hugging in front of him a double bass as tall as himself and asks if Chanhee can adopt him. Chanhee welcomes him with open arms (after he passed the 1-minute audition judged by Byunghun) and Minsoo has never seen Jonghwan cry so much in the 9 years he has known the guy.

Byunghun talks to the drummer on the floor below his and together Byunghun, Jonghwan and Changbum (such was his name) make a jazz band. Because no one is in charge of Jonghwan’s restaurant and pub review column anymore, Ahn Daniel takes the task. Everybody is happy because Daniel is now paid to eat and drink while Minsoo’s articles go straight to Minwoo.

***

_The day Minsoo and Byunghun move into one flat (to save on rent), they have a lavish meal to celebrate, with sliced tomatoes and mozzarella on toast because Byunghun likes it of course. (“How did you know I like sliced tomatoes and mozzarella on toast?” “Uhh... Lucky guess?”)_

Bang Minsoo puts a stop to his magnum opus here because he does not know how this _thing_ works, especially when it concerns him; but when he is aware of the grin on his face as he watches Lee Byunghun’s cheeks puff up like those of a hamster’s from across their dinner table, he hopes it’s going to work well.


End file.
